


Better be Gryffindor

by petroltogo



Series: War is for Children [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Actually More Like How-Did-Harry-Become-A-BAMF: The Beginning, Angst, BAMF Harry, Basically Every House Is Messed Up, Bullying, Canon-typical Lack of Competent Adults, Children are Cruel, Dark Golden Trio, Dark Harry, Friendship, Gen, Gryffindor Court, Gryffindor First Years For The Win, Harry Is The Dark Lord's Equal, Hermione is a Good Friend, Hierarchy, Independent Harry, King of Gryffindor, Loyalty, Or Inter-House Rules And Courts For That Matter, Playing with tropes, Political Gryffindors, Power Plays, Slytherin Does Not Have A Monopoly On Politics, The Sorting Hat Doesn't Make Mistakes, and also dangerous, canon-typical child abuse, ron is a good friend, this is not gonna end well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 11:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15795267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petroltogo/pseuds/petroltogo
Summary: In which the Sorting is less of a choice between Dark and Light and more of a fashion statement, Gryffindors are more than reckless, bumbling fools, and Slytherins aren't the only ones playing politics.Because you didn'tactuallybelieve that life is so straightforward as to be defined solely by the colour of a tie, did you? Hidden in plain sight, in the one house they least expected, Harry Potter becomes what he was always meant to be.Hogwarts beware, the Dark Lord's equal is rising!





	1. The King

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of the very first story I ever wrote in English. I'm proud of it, and I still love the idea behind it, but I like to think that my writing has improved somewhat since I first started out, so hopefully this version will be a significant improvement.
> 
> Happy reading!

  _This may not be happiness, but it is greatness._

—George B. Shaw

The moment Professor McGonagall called his name, Harry Potter could feel the sudden rise of tension in the air. Where before many of the older students had been chatting and whispering with each other, there was a moment of heavy silence as he stepped forward, before the Great Hall exploded into not very quite whispers once more.

The noise reminded Harry of Aunt Petunia when she had the neighbours over for tea, tittering and talking in low tones that were nevertheless meant to be heard. It was not a pleasant comparison, and Harry fleetingly considered turning around and walking straight back out of the door again.

Not that he would — certainly not with his relatives of all people on the other end of that road, but some reflexes were hard to suppress. And Harry had long ago learnt that these types of whispers — the ones that were so poisonous they shouldn't grow and yet flourished in ways the truth never did — were the kind best avoided.

All those bright eyes staring at him at him, filled with curiosity, untold expectations and a startling amount of reverence, didn't help either. Harry felt like a particularly unattractive bug under a microscope. Or possibly Dudley's shoe, what with the sense of looming doom he was beginning to feel.

_"The Harry Potter!"_

_"I didn't know he would be here this year!"_

_"Do you think he really is the Boy-Who-Lived?"_

_"I saw him on the train!"_

_"He's kinda scrawny though, don't you think?"_

But, for better or worse, Harry was used to whispers and narrowed eyes following his every step. Refusing to entertain laughable thoughts about returning to the Dursleys, now that he had finally escaped them, Harry walked towards the professor in quick strides. He was careful to keep his expression calm and unimpressed — a look mastered by enduring Aunt Petunia's endless praise of Dudley for ten years without laughing, which was  _hard_  — and his back straight enough to let the words slide right off it.

Harry had spent ten years as the infamous orphaned delinquent of Privet Drive. Ten years of ignoring his cousin when he jumped down the stairs hard enough to make his cupboard's ceiling creak and shake as though they'll break any second now and bury him beneath the rubble. Ten years of pretending not to notice Mrs. Number Seven locking the doors whenever she saw him walking by the house. Ten years of thanking Mr. and Mrs. Number Two for the cookies they gave him for taking care of their yard during the holidays. Ten years of rumours and whispers and distrust, of smiles filled with pity and paranoid hands clutching their wallets just a little tighter.

Ten,  _long_  years.

Watching the students before him crane their necks to get a better look was intimidating, but also infuriating.

Thankfully, Professor McGonagall chose that moment to lower the Sorting Hat onto Harry's head. The agitated student body disappeared from view, replaced by the dark, matted inside of old fabric and a husky voice loud enough to drown out the never-ending whispers. Which wasn't as comforting as it could have been. Oh, Harry had always been a freak, but even he knew that hearing voices did not speak for one's sanity.

Of course, he was being judged by a talking hat, so maybe, just maybe, things were different in the magical world. That, or they were all bat-shit crazy. A possibility that could not, in good conscience be discounted, considering they left the fate of their children in the hands of a talking piece of clothing.

Setting the matter of his sanity aside for the moment, Harry focused on the voice inside his mind.

" _My, my, you're an interesting one, aren't you?_ " The hat — at least Harry desperately hoped it was the hat — chuckled huskily.

Harry wondered if talking hats could smoke. If so, the one on his head should probably cut back on it. Not only was he setting a bad example for students all-around, if his voice got any raspier, it might actually hurt to hear.

There was a moment of silence. When the hat hastily continued, Harry thought he sounded almost a little guilty.

" _Yes, well… You've got talent, there's no doubt 'bout that and a sharp mind to back it up… And so eager to prove your worth. A strong sense of right and wrong… not easily swayed in your stance, are you? Yes, a strong character indeed. Now, where shall I put you, Harry Potter?_ "

Harry frowned. From what he understood, it was the Sorting Hat's job to choose a student's place, not his own preferences. Then again it was just a  _hat_. Perhaps it was an old artefact that was simply charmed to recognise and verbalise the subconscious desire of those who wore it?

" _I resent that thought, young man!_ "

A few days ago, Harry would have thought it impossible, but it turned out magic did in fact get old. Especially when inhabiting a mind-reading piece of clothing incapable of making decisions. Who would have thought that the novelty would wear off this quickly? Yet another question to be pondered at a later date.

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes — nobody would see it anyways, so what was the point? — Harry contemplated the Sorting Hat's previous question.

What  _did_  he want from Hogwarts? Where did he wish to go? What was he hoping to find?

Presented with these loaded questions, none of which had an easy answer, Harry floundered. His goals had always been simple, concrete.  _Be faster than Dudley (so he won't catch you)_.  _Swipe a piece of cake while Aunt Petunia is busy catering to Dudley_.  _Get away from the Dursleys_.

But Hogwarts? Hogwarts was already the fulfilment of every goal Harry had ever had, just by offering him a way out. Harry hadn't yet given a single thought to what he would do once he got there, what he would wish and strive for. He'd been to caught up in the impossibility of living a dream come true. A mistake he now seriously regretted.

And then Harry remembered.

Not the talks about the condemnation of one house and the wonders of another, no. Not the hero-worship in the eyes of a red-haired boy, nor the foul words spoken by another year mate. Harry remembered the wandmaker Hagrid had taken him to, on his first visit into the magical world, Mister Ollivander. He remembered the expression the man had been wearing when looking at his creation in Harry's hand and seeing another boy long since grown in his place.

The odd mixture of disgust and a self-centred sort of pride born out off one's own achievement. An admiration tainted by fear and horror, but genuine nonetheless, when Ollivander had spoken of the feared Lord Voldemort.

It was strange, perhaps, for those who did not know Petunia Dursley very well, but in that moment Harry had been reminded of her. Of the way she had looked at him sometimes, when something particularly freakish happened around him.

Of the satisfaction that expression had brought him, a cold, colourless kind of happiness that wasn't more than a twisted shadow of the real thing, but still close enough. The closest he had ever gotten, where his relatives were concerned.

" _After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things— terrible, yes, but great_ ," Ollivander had said.

And Harry thought of the perpetual sneer on Aunt Petunia's face when she was forced to speak about him. Recalled the wary or pitying glances the neighbours would throw him. Remembered the disappointed exasperation his teachers had worn when faced with yet another hopeless case, and he knew with a startling sort of clarity that those were the expressions these people would wear when talking about him.

He thought of Hagrid's shudder when speaking a simple name, of the glimmering fascination in Ollivander's eyes, the shadows lying underneath the eager excitement the magical world had welcomed their hero with.

And Harry  _wanted_.

He wanted to be great. He wanted to prove himself, and, more importantly by far, he wanted to prove the Dursleys wrong. Harry wanted to matter. To be remembered. Not as the poor orphan without a future. Not as the thankless brat destroying everything he touched. Not as the Boy-Who-Lived, a title Harry could barely connect with himself. No. Harry wanted  _more_. He wanted to be remembered for his own achievements.

In that very moment, Harry made his decision. It was a choice he would never be able to take back.

Squaring his shoulders, Harry steeled his spine, determination and stubbornness his only allies in the storm that was sure to follow.

" _Slytherin_ ," Harry thought, certain he'd made the right choice. " _Put me into Slytherin, please._ "

" _Hmm._ " The hat hummed.

Harry wondered if it had been taken by surprise. Did the hat have a working understanding of the times he was living in? Did it know about the current views of each house? Or was it an ancient relic, stuck in a time long passed?

" _I admit you'd do well in Salazar's house, where your power would be respected and your strength and belief would be tested and honed relentlessly. But I wonder if it wouldn't be a mistake-_ "

" _Slytherin, Slytherin, Slytherin!_ " Harry repeated, again and again, gripping the edges of his seat tightly. He couldn't fail. Never again. He was so tired of not being good enough.

" _You're a driven individual._ " Having only a voice to go on, Harry nevertheless imagined the Sorting Hat shaking its head at him in silent admonishment. " _You possess many qualities Salazar treasured in his students, and I have no doubt that his house would help you improve every one of them. But Slytherin isn't the only house you'd do well in, and-_ "

" _Why bother asking for my opinion if you ignore it anyway?_ " Harry snapped angrily, thoroughly done with the ramblings of the invasive, lying, bastard on his head.

He'd asked, hadn't he? He'd asked, and Harry had told him, and he couldn't remember the last time he had genuinely wanted something and dared to ask for it, and he'd trusted the hat, damn it, had  _trusted_  him to listen. So  _why_ —

The Hat chuckled, but it didn't sound very friendly. " _Because your answer reveals more about you than you realise, Mister Potter. It has been a long time since I've been faced with such a challenge, a long time indeed. But no, I've made up my mind. Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness, Mister Potter, no doubt about that, but to uncover your true potential better be GRYFFINDOR!_ "

The last part was shouted out loud into the Great Hall, and Harry heard the deafening applause from his future housemates before he had even managed to get the damn traitor off his head. Trying to mask his disappointment, never mind the righteous anger, about his sorting Harry moved slowly, to give himself just a bit more time before he would once again be faced with the always present stares.

Thus, he heard the last words the hat whispered into the depth of his mind clearly — and they would stay with him for a long time to come.

" _Remember Harry Potter, there are no secrets better kept than the secrets everybody guesses._ "

Before Harry had the chance to process the hat's last words, never mind demand an explanation, Professor McGonagall took it from his hands and shooed him towards his new table.

Then there was a swirl of red and gold, loud clapping, congratulations, curious questions, blinding smiles, whispers about a king and his knights, and the strange words of an old man with a long beard, wearing the strangest robes Harry had ever seen.

*

It confused Harry at first why the first years had to be led to the Gryffindor common room by two prefects — who hadn't even introduced themselves — separately from the rest of their house. Weren't they all going to the common room anyways?

But as they climbed through the portrait of the Fat Lady, the purpose of this manoeuvre became startlingly clear: They had deliberately been delayed so the older students would reach the tower first and could prepare for their entrance.

Having grown up with a bully and his five friends, Harry was understandably wary about the initiation he suspected was going to take place. It didn't help that the students from all years seemed to be present, quietly waiting for them. Not a good sign at all.

The seating arrangement they were presented with in the Gryffindor common room was anything but randomly chosen, that much Harry knew for sure. In fact, the way the older students were positioned in a half-circle around a couple of majestically-looking armchairs reminded Harry a little of an old book about the tales of King Arthur. The lounging chair in the middle couldn't be mistaken as anything but a throne.

An odd choice, considering the Wizarding World wasn't a monarchy as far as Harry knew. Or was it?

The first years were herded into the middle of the room, right in front of the circle of thirteen chairs. Each chair was covered in Gryffindor-red velvet and occupied by a student, the youngest of which was at least fourteen, probably fifteen years old. Harry immediately dubbed them the Arthur Knights in his mind, since that seemed to be the kind of image they wanted to project. It was only fitting.

And from the arrangement alone, there was no doubt that the one placed in the middle, was the king.

Looking around Harry noticed that, although the students of every year were present and scattered all over the room, there was an invisible line separating the ordinary students from the Arthur Knights. The most notable difference being that the Arthur Knights were facing the newcomers with irritatingly neutral faces, whilst the rest of the Gryffindors was focusing on them.

Harry tensed. There was an underlying tension in the air, just waiting for someone to inflame it, and it  _itched_. The unsettling stare of more than one Arthur Knight seemed focused solely on Harry too, which did nothing to put him at ease.

Something was going on here. A power play, obviously, and for some reason it seemed he had been volunteered as a player.  _Or an example_. The other first years had noticed it to, if the heavy silence was anything to go by. Yes, Harry did not have a good feeling about this.

After a terrible long moment of quiet appraisal, one of the sitting boys stood, drawing the attention of everyone to himself. He had dirty blond hair, a strong forehead, and thin lips.

"Welcome to Gryffindor." His words were slow and measured. The boy seemed friendly enough, approachable, but there was something about the way his gaze flickered over them, observing and judging, that rubbed Harry the wrong way.

"By now you will have already heard many stories about our house and the great people that have attended it over the years. Most of them are, of course, true and we take pride in their achievements, though you should always strive to outshine them. But like every house of Hogwarts, there are some things that you will never speak of outside these very walls. Secrets that are ours to guard, ours to know but not to share. These secrets are under a permanent  _Silencium_  — a secrecy charm — and you will not be able reveal them to anyone not of Gryffindor. You will know which secrets I refer to as you learn them." It seemed the boy — and once again Harry noticed the chosen speaker had not introduced himself — added that last part as a reassurance.

The effect was somewhat countered by the way his expression darkened suddenly and the welcoming smile he wore gained an edge of something cruel. "I recommend you do not try to betray these secrets. The  _Silencium_  will punish you — as will we."

At that, more than a few of the older students chuckled darkly. But what worried Harry far more were the select few who _flinched_.

"In addition to the school rules, Gryffindor has its own set of laws that you are expected to follow at all times," the speaker continued calmly. "You'll find copies of the rules at the common board, and an additional set in your dorms. Most of them are self-explanatory, but if you are unsure of their meaning, ask. Ignorance of the rules is no excuse and will  _not_  save you from punishment. Understood?"

Harry nodded along with everyone else, as he had learnt to do in the face of one of Aunt Petunia's tirades. He was similarly impressed — meaning not at all — with the introduction speech. Somehow, he had associated Hogwarts not just with 'away from the Dursleys' but with freedom. It was becoming more apparent by the second that he had spoken — or rather hoped — too soon.

That… bothered him more than Harry wanted to admit. Hogwarts was supposed to be different. Hogwarts was supposed to be better. Hogwarts was supposed to be magical.

"Good," the speaker continued. And seriously, what was it with wizards and witches and not introducing themselves? Harry had read something about " _names have power_ " somewhere but this was ridiculous.

"That leaves me with only one more thing to cover today. The house of Gryffindor is lead by the king. There can only ever be one king at a time, and every king creates his own command structure. We-," here the boy waved at the group of students around him, "-are his knights. The king's most trusted. We stand directly beneath him and above all of you. For the most part, none of us care about what's going on in your life or what you're doing with your free time. You will not approach us unless we address you first. If there is an issue you want to bring to the king's attention, find a prefect and they'll pass on the message. But if the king or one of his knights tells you to do something,  _you do it_.  _Nothing_  is above the king's word. When the king speaks, you listen and you obey. It's that simple. There is no breaking his rules because trust me when I say you don't want to find out what's going to happen if you do. Any questions?"

Harry gritted his teeth against the urge to speak up. He was too confused and off-balance, too angry about the quick death his hopes for Hogwarts had just died. So this was it, was it? He was a wizard, he had magic, and he was supposed to play loyal dog to some stuck-up bastard who fancied himself a king?

That was the new start he'd been promised?

Perhaps the worst, most surreal part was how everyone just seemed to accept the nameless boy's words. Nobody had laughed and told them to pull the other one. No one had rolled their eyes or made a joke.

Sure, they were only eleven and the older students made for an intimidating picture, but weren't any of his year mates even a little sceptical? As far as Harry knew, no book had mentioned this type of power play within the houses. Had the Gryffindors built a kingdom from nothing? Was that even possible? Or had the foundations been already there? Were they backed by some unwritten rules only the magically-raised knew and understood?

And while he was on the subject of kings, what kind of rules did a king establish? Which domains did he have actual control over? Was he recognised by the other teachers? The headmaster? Or was his existence part of that Silence-spell-thingy? How did a king even "get the crown", so to speak? Was it an inherited title or an earned one?

Suffice to say, Harry did have questions. A quick glance towards his new year mates confirmed that he wasn't the only one. The girl with the bushy hair from the train — Hermione? — in particular seemed about ready to vibrate out of her skin with eagerness.

Her hand was in the air before the speaker had finished his introduction. Harry's joined her at a more moderate pace.

Despite Hermione's obvious enthusiasm, the chosen speaker gestured towards Harry first.

"How exactly does one become King?" he blurted out the first of his many questions that came to mind. Harry couldn't help it. Something about that title bothered and intrigued him in equal measures.

The speaker blinked, apparently not having expected this particular question. He blinked again. Then he snorted.

Harry's eyes narrowed. The boy hadn't really done anything — yet — but Harry didn't like him. At all.

"You're an ambitious one, aren't you?" The older boy smirked condescendingly. "Don't worry," the words were sugary-sweet, designed to infuriate and alienate — which was working fabulously, by the way, "there isn't a chance of you inheriting the crown, little one."

Harry twitched, at both, the ridiculous nickname — he didn't think it was arrogant to think that everyone knew his name, they had made that more than obvious after all, there was no reason to call him 'little one' — or that saccharine tone of voice.

It wasn't even an answer. At least not to the question Harry had asked. But as the other Gryffindors laughed alongside the speaker, Harry flushed, feeling an achingly familiar mixture of humiliation and righteous fury desperately pushed down, down, down, and he was so damn done with feeling weak.

It wasn't  _fair_. Hogwarts was supposed to be  _different_.

Harry swallowed. The knot inside his chest, made of everything he wouldn't, couldn't, let loose, tightened. And there it was, drumming along the strands pulled way too tight around his rip-cage; the insatiable need to  _prove them wrong_.

All these people standing around him, laughing at him, high on the power it gave them. So eager to discard him, all too ready put him down. As though nothing had changed.

Harry clenched his hands into fists. Narrowed, green eyes fixed their gaze on a young man who was sitting on the chair in the middle of the formation, six knights on either side. He looked ordinary, with flat, brown hair and equally dark eyes. Neither handsome nor ugly. Neither muscular nor pudgy.

He was the King. Despite his underwhelmingly average appearance, there was no doubt in Harry's mind. Suddenly the older one looked up, met Harry's stare with a dismissive disdain that kicked what was left of Harry's warped sense of self-preservation straight back to Privet Drive. Along with common sense, common curtesy, and that nice thing named self-control.

"Bow to your king," the speaker called out.

Harry stood frozen in place, back ramrod-straight, eyes stuck on unappealing brown. Refusing to so much as avert his gaze.

It was reckless. It was unplanned. It was so incredible stupid.

Right there, in front of the king, in front of the knights, in front of all of Gryffindor, Harry challenged the king's reign.

And in the ensuing silence, damning him, Harry vowed wordlessly that one day, he would become their superior. He would become king. The Arthur Knights would fall, their empire perish. Even if they didn't know it yet. Harry didn't care how reckless it was. He didn't care that he had neither allies nor power, that he was just a first year no one would take seriously.

He had spent all his life bending himself to other people's demands so he wouldn't break, but there were lines he refused to cross. Vows he wasn't willing to commit to. Orders he wouldn't follow.

Because he was Harry Potter and he didn't bow to anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the surprise of absolutely no one, I'm sure, this story was and is heavily inspired by a lot of Slytherin!Harry fics I've read. There's a type of what-if AUs that portray the House of Snakes as a very political house with a strict hierarchy, power play etc. I hope you know what I'm talking about, if not, let me know and I'll recommend you a few, because I love that trope and there are amazing works in that category that no one should be deprived of.
> 
> That said, I always thought it ironic how many fics clearly ridicule the idea that all dark wizards are in Slytherin etc. only to then put their dark!Harry into - you guessed right - Slytherin. It's not that I'm not addicted to that trope because I totally am. It's just that it's my belief that a dark Harry could come from any house, for any number of reasons. This fic is my attempt to explore the oppressive, political, viciously cutthroat, strictly hierarchy-defined way of life we often see in Slytherin-focused fics and asks: what if — perish the thought! — Slytherin actually isn't that special?
> 
> Purebloods are in every house, after all. And manipulation, mind games and power plays aren't reserved for the snakes alone.
> 
> Sorry for the rambling, just trying to put some of my feelings into words, which always ends messily. Anyways, I hope you like this rewritten version (I certainly think it's a big improvement) and I'd appreciate if you take the time to share your thoughts in a comment! For any first-time readers: exactly how much trouble our dear Harry just managed to get himself into, what do you think? :)
> 
> Have a great weekend, everybody!


	2. The Outcast

_Adversity has the effect of eliciting talents, which in prosperous circumstances would have lain dormant._

_—_ Horace

Maybe challenging the King of Gryffindor on his first night at his new school Hogwarts hadn't been Harry's best idea to date. Maybe it had even been kind of stupid.

 _Maybe_.

Just a tiny, little bit.

But he had done it. An impulsive action, yes, but not one Harry could just take back with a sweet smile and a heartfelt apology — not that he wanted to. Not that he felt he had anything to apologise for.

He hadn't endured his aunt's spiteful words and his uncle's unforgiving slaps just to grovel before some  _boy_  he didn't even know.

So no. Harry refused to take it back, no matter how stupid and pointless that was. Not that he could even if he wanted to. The Arthur King — and Harry was still annoyed by these magical people's habits to not introduce themselves with their bloody names — had already handed out a punishment for Harry's "insolence" as he called it:

The upper students were forbidden from helping the first years to settle into their new home. Because  _if they didn't like the king's rule, they could go ahead and live without it_  or some such nonsense.

It didn't fully dawn on Harry what that order meant until they ran into the Ravenclaw first years by accident the next day. No guides through the castle to make it to classes on time. No assistance with the library and homework. No advanced warnings and explanations for the confusing things Hogwarts did sometimes, like switching the second and the fourth floor on every first Tuesday of the month.

 _Nothing_.

Ten eleven year old children were left completely on their own in a magical castle they didn't know and in some cases a world they didn't understand. With no support and harsh criticism for every point their ignorance cost the house.

It was the Arthur Knights' first mistake.

*

Punishing the collective for the actions of a single person was a calculated decision, though not one without its risks.

There were generally two ways people reacted to being subjected to such an  _obvious_  injustice.

One was to blame the person who had earned the punishment, which would inevitably drive a wedge between Harry and his year mates. It was the reaction Harry had feared and expected. It was also likely exactly what the Arthur King wanted to achieve. To alienate him from his class mates. To keep Harry from gaining allies, from gaining power and influence.

It was a good plan, even if Harry didn't like to admit that.

Isolate the troublemaker from the get-go. Keep him alone, weak, and  _manageable_. Harry almost sneered at the thought.

Perhaps the worst part was that this only underscored just how much in Harry's life hadn't changed at all. Despite finally getting away from his awful relatives, despite discovering a whole new world, despite  _magic_ , people were still the same in the end.

That night, Harry fell asleep without exchanging a single word with his dorm mates. His aunt's poisonous whispers followed him into a restless sleep.

*

The next morning dawned too early for Harry, who had spent long hours in the dark agonising over the coming school year that had lost much of its temptation in the last twenty-four hours. By this point, his furious disappointment had mostly faded into a bitter resignation. One would think growing up with the Dursleys had prepared Harry better for this.

Hadn't primary school taught him anything?

As such it was a bit of an understatement to say that Harry was a  _little_  surprised when a dark-skinned boy with short hair and gentle hands woke him with a friendly smile two hours before classes began.

"Let's get up, we'll probably need the time to find the Great Hall. Name's Dean by the way," the boy said simply, like he wasn't just turning Harry's entire world around on its axis.

In the bathroom Harry ran into another boy with sandy blond hair and freckles who introduced himself as Seamus Finnegan.

By the time Harry was done washing up, the first year dorm had descended into a sort of controlled chaos. Seamus was blindly throwing socks over his shoulder and cursing viciously under his breath. Neville, whom he had already met on the train, was crawling around on all fours, searching his toad again, while Ron Weasley finally stumbled out of his bed — almost stepping on Neville's fingers as he did so — after Dean threatened to get a bucket of ice-cold water.

Standing in the middle of said chaos, Harry felt more than a little lost. Living in a cupboard for as long as he could remember had in no way prepared him for — this. It didn't help that he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to start cursing him or kicking him or at the very least throwing him a dark glare. Not just going about their lives like he hadn't just ruined their first day because he was too stubborn for his own good.

And now that Harry was thinking about it some more, he realised with growing dread that he would have to sleep in the same dorm with these guys for the next seven years. Which could prove to be an eternity if he didn't make at least one friend. Though he would settle for friendly acquaintances at this point. And to think that Harry had probably blown that chance on his very first night because of his stupid pride and the Arthur King's pretentiousness.

It was a helplessly frustrating thought and Harry didn't like it one bit.

"I'm sorry!" he blurted out suddenly. His unexpected outburst brought the lively activity to a halt for a moment, as the other boys turned to look at him with expressions Harry didn't know how to read.  _Well, in for a penny…_ , he thought hysterically.

"About— you know— last night and the whole king thing," He stuttered out. Shrugged. Drew his shoulders closer to his ears as though his body would somehow shield him from their scorn and feeling more awkward with every passing second.

Harry had never apologised before. Or at least he had never actually  _meant_  it. There was no reason to when you lived with people who absolutely detested your very existence and would never believe your "slimy excuses" anyways. And Harry wasn't sorry for being too proud, but he was sorry that they were punished alongside him.

That wasn't fair. Just because it was a good move didn't mean it was  _right_.

Harry was the first to admit that he had limited experience with socialising (thank you, Dudley, for ensuring that no other kid stuck around long enough to get to know him) but he still thought his roommates' reactions didn't make any sense. They didn't seem to be angry at him, and Harry— Harry didn't know what to do with that.

They didn't even look terribly upset about the punishment the Arthur King had given them. Really, how did that work?  _Harry_  was upset, and he'd at least done something to earn it.

"'s fine, you know." Seamus shrugged. "You didn't do anything wrong. Ma always says asking questions is important. Don't know why they were so prissy about it. He was kind of a bastard, wasn't he?"

With that piece of wisdom shared, Seamus turned back towards his trunk in the search of a matching sock.

"Yeah," Neville quietly agreed, then immediately blushed scarlet when he realised he'd spoken out loud. He carefully cradled his toad in his head, which had apparently taken refuge inside Harry's left shoe. "It wasn't fair and a King should never abuse his power or he'll lose his right to the throne. That's how the stories always go."

Then Ron shuffled out of the bathroom, a smudge of toothpaste still on his chin, and yawned loudly before stating what all the boys seemingly had agreed upon: "We're on your side, mate, so get over it already. Now, breakfast anyone? 'Cause I'm starving."

And that was that.

*

Their first day at Hogwarts seemed to go on forever. They were late for every class they had, missed lunch entirely — much to Ron's horror — and poor Neville fractured his ankle because of a false step on a staircase. They had to find a Hufflepuff third year to lead them to the infirmary too.

The twenty points they lost and the reprimands the professors gave them did nothing to improve Harry's mood. By the time the day was finally over, all Harry wanted to do was crawl into his bed and cry.

Magic sure was a whole lot less enchanting than he'd hoped it would be.

But after that terrible first day — which true to form turned into a terrible first week — at Hogwarts the Gryffindor first years slowly fell into an daily routine. Sure, they were still late for classes more often than not, but their house mates glares and scathing comments got easier to shrug off with every day.

What was the big deal about house points anyways? Harry for his part certainly didn't want to honour a house that didn't want him. And besides they had at least a perfectly good reason to explore the castle in more detail whenever they had a free moment. Hogwarts was huge and investigating the many different corridors and staircases, the portraits that swapped places and the doors that seemed to have a will of their own was a lot of fun.

Dean, who was a very good artist, started drawing plans of the school grounds. They started out pretty shabby and confusing, but grew more detailed and sophisticated with every new draft he put onto paper.

After a memorable incident where Harry leant against a perfectly ordinary wall next to their Transfiguration classroom to catch his breath, only to suddenly be swallowed by the stone and get literally spat out on the sixth floor, Seamus and Ron made it their mission to find as many hidden passages and short-cuts as possible.

Neville, who despite having lived in the magical world his whole life stumbled around like a confused kitten most of the time, could be found at the library whenever he had a moment to spare. He was often joined by the eager-to-learn Hermione Granger and her shy dorm mate Lilly Moon. No one bothered to explain the library layout to them or show them where they could find the most helpful beginner texts, but Hermione in particular quickly got the hang of the organisation system and Neville wasn't as forward as she was, but he soaked up her every word like a sponge.

The other first year girls, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, who were nice enough if perhaps a bit giggly, had quickly made friends with a group of Ravenclaws. They were more than willing to ask their fellow firsties any questions about the castle that stumped the boys.

It was their friendship with the 'Claws that gave Harry the idea to use his experience with his unpleasant relatives to his advantage and shadowed people from the other houses. Mostly in search for popular hideouts, the other common rooms and the likes. He stayed away from the older Gryffindors if at all possible, but the other houses were fair game — and true to the Arthur Knights' announcement on the first night, no one outside Gryffindor had any idea about the punishment the first years had earned.

It didn't occur to Harry until many years later that maybe if they had known, some of the older students would have been willing to help them out. Because Harry had been raised by an aunt who despised questions and an uncle who went out of his way to make his nephew unhappy, and despite his new friends' surprising willingness to stand by his side, he never for a moment considered that others might do the same.

So Harry didn't ask for help — he made his own answers. And the others, whether they realised it or not, followed his lead.

*

Despite their very best efforts and serious dedication, Hogwarts was still a magical castle. Harry wasn't sure if there even was anyone alive who knew every nook and stone of this castle. He didn't even know if it was humanly possible. It took them over a month to gain a solid understanding of their school's layout — and that didn't take into account any of the irregular changes that took place on a regular basis.

Still. After five weeks of trailing down abandoned hallways, getting lost in rooms that weren't supposed to exist and offending twenty-seven paintings and counting, the Gryffindor first years finally made it to every class on time for an entire week. Harry didn't think Professor Snape — or Professor McGonagall, for that matter — would ever forgive them for their previous tardiness, but at least they weren't getting yelled at anymore.

That Friday evening, as Dean finalised the latest edition of their map, they celebrated with the sweets Seamus' mum had sent her son via owl post. There was a satisfaction in knowing that they had done this all on their own. Had achieved something without the help of their older housemates. For the life of him, Harry couldn't wipe the wide, silly grin from his face, and he wasn't the only one.

It didn't matter that they had been abandoned, that they were unwanted and outcast. Because they didn't need anyone, they were just fine on their own.

Chocolate had never tasted so sweet.

Ron lifted the plastic cup he'd been fascinated by for the last twenty minutes and jokingly shouted "To the Arthur King who made all this possible, by being an utter prat!"

They all laughed. Neville spilled some of his soda onto his pants. Seamus shook his head in amusement and threw an arm over Harry's shoulder, warm and close and steady. Harry couldn't remember the last time he had felt so light, so invincible.

It wasn't the first time Ron had said something along those lines, but it was the first time each and every one of them  _believed_  it.

Their bond might have been born out of necessity, but nothing united a bunch of kids like a common enemy.

*

All in all — and despite the initial disappointment — Harry was quite happy with his life at Hogwarts. It wasn't as rosy and magical as he had imagined it would be, but maybe that was the difference between dreams and reality. And maybe with every time Seamus knocked their shoulders together, and Dean grinned broadly at him, and Neville excitedly explained something to him he didn't know without making Harry feel stupid, and Ron called him his 'best mate' so naturally, Harry minded a little less.

Sure, the older students only talked to him during Quidditch practice — after he had accidentally made the team because Professor McGonagall insisted and the Arthur King hadn't been able to procure anyone who could outfly Harry, though certainly not for lack of trying. And the Arthur Knight's and their King still had it out for him and his friends by association.

But Harry  _had_  friends. Real friends. People who weren't afraid — okay, maybe a little bit afraid, but that didn't stop them, they were Gryffindors after all — to stand up for him, the weirdo, the freak.

It was definitely strange, but… a nice strange, maybe.

Time went by quickly and it was Halloween by the time the dynamics within the Gryffindor house were changed once more. It wasn't so much the fact that Ron and Harry nearly got themselves killed trying to save the life of Hermione Granger — a Gryffindor girl with an unhealthy obsession for rules — but the consequences of said less-than-heroic battle.

Because  _obviously_  saving her life meant that they were now best friends with Hermione. Harry didn't quite understand that logic, but everyone in the school knew better than to argue with Hermione when she got that look in her eyes, so he shrugged and moved closer to Dean to make room for her at the breakfast table.

It wasn't like it was a hardship to be friends with Hermione. She was intelligent and driven, maybe a bit socially awkward, but Harry could hardly talk. Truth be told, Hermione reminded Harry a bit of himself. A far more vocal, book-obsessed version of himself, but still.

The other boys took surprisingly well to Hermione — even Ron, who spent the first few days constantly reminding everyone that  _he_  was Harry's best mate, the spot was taken, period; another thing that Harry didn't really understand — and soon she was included into their tightly-knitted group as though she'd always been there.

Hermione was a welcome addition. That being said, her sudden closeness with Harry and Ron, and the other boys' by association, ruffled quite a few feathers. It wasn't anything loud or obvious, but Harry hadn't survived Privet Drive by being inattentive. He saw it in Arthur King's eyes the morning after Halloween, when the girl first sat down between Harry and Neville and chastised Ron for his horrid table manners before answering Dean's curious question about how she managed to stay awake in Binn's lesson with a snappy retort.

It didn't take a genius to realise that the Arthur King wasn't too happy with Harry's steadily growing group. A group completely outside his reach. Due to his own decision, true. It had been he who cast all the first years from his reign after all.

But watching the growing disquiet in the older boy's eyes, Harry thought that maybe the Arthur King had never intended for his punishment to last this long. Maybe he had never considered that they would do anything but flounder if left to their own devices. Maybe there was supposed to be a lesson in his decree that they had missed — and maybe he wasn't too happy about being proven wrong.

It would be years before Harry realised that the look in the Arthur King's eyes hadn't been anger or injured pride. That, somewhere in between a steadily-developing map, a slow improvement in their homework quality and the continuous addition of new students towards their little group, the king stopped looking at them like they were children and started seeing something else instead. And so maybe, many years later, when casually asked where it all began, Harry would look back at this very moment, would remember the way the look in the Arthur King's eyes,  _seeing_  him, and he would know.

But Harry was only eleven and he had never learnt the difference between anger and fear, and so he only grinned, sharp and challenging — because maybe Snape was right and he didn't learn from his mistakes at all — at the king until Ron drew his attention back to an ongoing discussion of the superiority of Quidditch over any other sport.

Oh, Harry wasn't arrogant enough to think he could take on the Arthur Knights and overthrow their reign or anything equally ridiculous. For Merlin's sake, he was only eleven and barely knew how to make blue fire yet!

But he also knew very well that until given further provocation, there was very little the Arthur King could do to them. After all, Harry and his friends were  _first years_  and there was only so much the other students were willing to do to them.

Thanks to some liberal eavesdropping on conversations in the common room, Harry knew that many weren't happy with the punishment the youngest members of their house had been dealt with. Ironically, it was only the way they had been able to handle it that had stopped some of the more conflicted ones from speaking up so far.

And who could blame them? Harry hadn't really considered it until Hermione pointed it out, but the Weasleys weren't the only students with younger siblings. Understandably, none of them were comfortable with the thought that their brothers and sisters might earn a similar punishment. It made them doubt their king's decision — and the Arthur King knew it.

For the time being, any further actions the Arthur King took against them would do more harm than good for his own position. And Harry had absolutely no intention of giving him an excuse to do otherwise.

A slap on the back of his head drew Harry back into the real world, where Hermione shot him a mischievous smile and Neville nervously asked if he'd seen Trevor anywhere. The little guy was oddly fond of Harry's shoes for some reason. Dean was already drawing a WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE poster for Neville to hand out and Ron threw a pillow at Seamus's head because of some sarcastic remark about the usefulness of a toad.

Relaxing back against the wall of their dorm, Harry began to discuss their transfiguration homework with Hermione and simply basked in the feeling of being just another eleven-year-old child, hanging out with his closest friends. Because right now that was all he was.

Life wasn't perfect — but it was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? :)


	3. The Catalyst

_ We're the pieces of the puzzle they don't know what to do with, the pieces that don't quite fit into their perfect little picture, so they choose to discard us, to keep their image untainted, but we can only be ignored for so long.  _

— J.M. Darhower, Extinguish 

 

It all started with a name. 

Of course, great changes had an odd habit of starting in strange, unexpected places, even though few cared to remember that fact. Maybe it was for the best that history tended to gloss over these less inspiring details. Some things were better left off the record. 

No matter what some idealists seemed to think, there were truths out there their world would do well to forget.

*

When asked about his future, Harry would have never pictured himself as the leader of a revolution. Alright, strictly speaking that wasn't true. Of course he had spent some History of Magic lessons dreaming of the fall of the Arthur king. Had drifted off to thoughts of how he and his friends could study and train together, become some freaky, magical protégé and one day succeed in overthrowing the Arthur Knights’ reign. But that was all those moments ever were. Dreams. 

Because the truth, no matter how bitter a taste it left behind on his tongue, was that they were nothing but six outcast first year students. And sure, Hermione had a bright mind. Dean was a talented artist. Neville had a green thumb. Ron was a fantastic chess player. Seamus could get along with everyone (especially the girls, strangely enough) and Harry was practically radiating magical energy. All their abilities mixed together made for one heck of a powerful person. But they weren't. They were six kids, nothing more. Most of them barely even able to successfully cast a  _ Wingardium Leviosa _ . On their own, each one of them was as ordinary as you please.

That's why day after day when the Arthur Knights took the most comfortable seats and about half of the tables in the common room for themselves, laughing and studying as though all was right in their world — as though nothing could touch them — Harry ignored the ever-present urge to throw something at the king’s head. Like Hermione’s nighttime lecture. That ought to take him down a notch— or knock him out cold. But all such an action would accomplish, was to alienate them further from the rest of their house. Not to mention the retaliation would undoubtedly be memorable.

No, the satisfaction of such an action would be short-lived. And as much as their situation grated on Harry’s tightly-strung nerves, he knew all too well that it could be much, much worse.

Harry guessed that his friends — and he still couldn’t help but pause whenever the word flew through his mind, the odd idea that he had  _ friends _ now, somehow — were of a similar mindset. At least they didn’t show any sign that indicated otherwise. Or maybe — most likely, actually — they just didn't see life the way he did. 

If the last ten years with the Dursleys had taught Harry anything it was that life meant fighting. Life itself was a fight. You constantly battled against it, the hunger, the exhaustion, illnesses, humans, ideas and prejudices. There was a certain wisdom to the 'survival of the fittest'. Harry still remembered the debate they’d had in biology a few months ago. There had been a moral lesson wedged in there somewhere Mr. Sleet had tried to teach them, about science and the way it could be misunderstood and misused. It had certainly been an interesting class, but what had really stuck with Harry at the time was that the ‘fittest’ didn’t necessarily mean the survival of the strongest. For a kid who had been pushed around by his taller, stronger cousin all his life, it was a revolutionary concept. It had been something to think about during the long nights Harry had spent locked up in his cupboard. Something to count on. 

It went without saying that Harry hated the Dursleys. There was no common ground between them. No room for forgiveness, no boiling rage or unnecessary turmoil. For Harry, it was one of the most simple and obvious rules of life. A universally acknowledged fact not to be questioned. 

That did not, however, mean that Harry hadn't learned anything of value in that trice-damned house. The Dursleys had never taught him a specific understanding for what was right or wrong, no. Expect maybe that whatever it was  _ Harry _ did, it was certainly always wrong. And so the one rule Harry had learned while growing up was that life was all about fighting and surviving. Harry’s introduction to Hogwarts had done nothing but confirm his expectations. In that sense at least, the magical world really wasn’t any different from the muggle one. That didn't mean it didn't hurt to be rejected because it did. The difference was that, for the first time that Harry could remember, he wasn’t on his own. 

Over the first few months at Hogwarts, Harry had gotten to know his new friends quite well. As such he was confident that though Neville's relatives needed a serious trashing and Hermione had obviously dealt with bullying in her years before Hogwarts, none of them had lived through the hateful environment he had grown up in. Which was good — Harry didn’t know what he would have done if they had — but it also meant that they didn’t  _ think _ like Harry.

They didn’t hide food in the pockets of their robes _ just in case _ . They didn’t keep their back towards a wall whenever they were in the same room as the Arthur Knights because  _ blind spots got you beaten up _ . They didn’t look at an old castle and saw  _ hundreds of possible places for an ambush _ . Only that wasn’t entirely fair, was it? Neville, for one, had a remarkable talent to go unnoticed that Harry swore had to involve magic of some kind. Ron had a healthy distrust towards food coming from unreliable sources, thanks to growing up with two mischievous twin brothers. Dean had this way of looking at the moving staircases and seeing patterns where Harry would have sworn that there weren’t any. Seamus had the enviable, if on occasion inconvenient ability to turn anything into a working explosive. Hermione had eyes in the back of her head or at the very least supernaturally good hearing — when she wasn’t focused on reading, that was.

They weren’t stupid or clueless. But none of them reached for their wand every time they caught sight of the Arthur Knights. None of them watched the older students like they might turn around and attack them any second. Sure, the Gryffindor first years all agreed on the unfairness of the Arthur King's rule but, unlike Harry, they didn't spend every waking hour obsessing over how to defend themselves against this threat.

It was probably for the best. This way at least they weren’t panicking or pushing for a plan of attack, were content to find their footing in Hogwarts on their own and be at peace with their strained relationship to the rest of the Gryffindor house. That meant Harry only had an obnoxious, spoilt Malfoy prince, a three-headed guard dog and a murderous professor to worry about. 

Hermione was all but drowning herself in books in her search for Nicolas Flamel — for all her many strengths, resisting a good, old-fashioned mystery was apparently not one of them — and dragged a always complaining Ron to the library as often as possible. Seamus and Dean took turns to guard the locked door on the third floor and following Snape, their current prime suspect in the attempt on Harry’s life — though the Arthur King was admittedly a strong second. Meanwhile, Neville had been tasked with keeping tabs on the Slytherins. Malfoy especially. The poor boy had gotten hexed and cursed more often than all the other first years put together. Quite an achievement, really. Not that anyone, safe for a tutting Madame Pomfrey, seemed to notice. And Harry? Well, Harry was doing what Harry did best: he plotted.

In other words, despite the current, uneasy standstill between the Arthur Knights and the outcasts, Hogwarts was proving to be anything but boring. 

*

On the day  _ it _ happened Harry, who usually joined Hermione and Ron in the library, was just staggering towards the common room after a particularly exhausting Quidditch training session. Honestly, Oliver Wood's obsession with that sport just couldn't be healthy. And being the team captain, Wood made sure they all suffered for it. ‘Dodging practice’ — which was really just a roundabout way of saying the beaters gave their level-best to knock Harry off his broom — was a nightmare. If Wood was a fraction less fanatic about winning the Quidditch cup, Harry would have suspected that the guy was genuinely trying to kill him.

Actually, it would be a lie to say he’d ruled the possibility out completely. Harry simply suspected that Wood would wait with such a move until after their final play.

In any case, Harry was tired, sweaty and absolutely sick of flying. Not a statement he would have ever imagined he could get behind. And yes, he may have been taking his sweet time in returning to the common room, but could anyone really blame him? After two endless hours of barely avoiding a bludger to the head, Harry wasn’t exactly eager to work through yet another book about the  _ Most Important Political Degrees Passed By Remarkable Wizards in the Twentieth Century _ . It was important basic knowledge to understand the current political climate — or so Hermione kept telling him — but that didn’t change the fact that the introduction had been enough to bore Harry to tears. No, he definitely wasn’t in a hurry. At all.

It helped that the staircases were not on his side today. If asked — by Dean who surpassed even Hermione in terms of nagging when he put his mind to it — Harry would totally blame them for being late. Maybe Hogwarts sensed his uncharitable train of thought because the next staircase Harry set a foot on promptly dropped him off on the second floor and refused to budge, forcing Harry to take the long way all the way down the corridor towards the east wing with its own set of staircases. Magical castles sounded awesome in theory — and Harry loved Hogwarts with all his heart — but he swore the castle had a sense of humor as twisted as Peeve’s. No matter how often Hermione insisted that, for all that the very foundation of Hogwarts was soaked in magic, the castle did  _ not _ have a consciousness of its own. Personally, Harry thought it much more likely that no one had bothered to check so far, but what did he know?

Being distracted by his internal discussion with the tiny Hermione that seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside his head as he was, Harry could perhaps be forgiven for not paying as much attention to his surroundings as he usually would have. Which is why he walked straight into a brick wall. 

A stumbling brick wall that cursed up a blue stream whilst Harry dazedly blinked up at it, only just managing to stay on his feet.

“ _ Wanya _ !” A girl cried out, horrified. “You can’t— not in front of a first year!”

The girl, a Ravenclaw and probably a fifth year — the prefect badge was a dead give-away —, made an aborted gesture, as though to reach out and cover Harry’s ears. It took him a moment to realize that it was the language she was worried about — and Harry almost laughed, really. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been worried about using a  _ bad word _ in front of him. Usually,  _ he _ was the bad word.

“Shit, sorry!” Wanya muttered, wincing when the girl slapped his shoulder in admonishment.

His voice was familiar, but Harry, who’d been distracted by the Ravenclaw’s dramatics, struggled to place it. It was only when he turned towards the guy and looked up — and up — that Harry realized with a startling clarity that he had somehow managed to run into the one person he’d been avoiding at all costs: the Arthur King himself.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one caught off-guard by their unexpected run-in, because the Arthur King’s — Wanya’s eyes widened in sudden recognition. “Potter?!” 

Coming from Wanya, his name sounded like an insult. It didn’t hurt quite as much as it used to — between Snape, Malfoy and the Arthur Knights Harry had plenty of opportunities to get used to the way his name was generally spat out as though it was something vile — but it still prickled uncomfortably at his skin, a neverending echo of every  _ freak _ and  _ useless boy _ his relatives had thrown at him over the years.

“Wanya!” the Ravenclaw snarled.

Huh. Apparently Harry wasn’t the only one who had noticed the Arthur King’s derision. Harry had never seen the King so— slumped. Of course, as a Ravenclaw the girl probably had no idea about the inter-house politics at play here, but still. It was kind of nice, the way she turned around and looked at Harry with a kind smile.

“I’m so sorry about Wanya, his manners are atrocious.” She winked and Harry couldn’t help but return her grin. “Are you lost? Getting used to this castle is a nightmare, I can’t even count how often I got lost over the years. I’m sure Wanya wouldn’t mind taking you to the common room.”

Harry didn’t think he imagined the unspoken  _ or else _ at the end of that offer — not with the dark glare the girl sent the Arthur King. Yeah. Definitely oblivious. Huh.

But as funny as watching the Arthur King so clearly out of his element was, Harry really had no desire to spend more time in the guy’s presence than strictly necessary. “No, thank you, miss.” He shook his head emphatically and brightened his smile. “I’m actually playing hide and seek with my friends, please promise not to tell if you see them?”

“Of course!” The girl’s eyes twinkled. “I’ll be sure to send them in the opposite direction.”

Harry laughed despite himself. The girl was— nice. He wasn’t sure why he was so surprised by that.

Determined to ignore Wanya and avoid an unpleasant confrontation, he sent her another wide grin, a heartfelt “Thank you!” and ran off. It was better not to provoke the Arthur King more than necessary — and if the fading noise of the Ravenclaw berating Wanya for his unfriendly treatment of first years kept a stubborn smile stuck on Harry’s lips, well, nobody had to know.

And so that afternoon, Harry Potter returned to the first year boy’s dormitory in a good mood, despite the mountain of books that awaited him there. In between the usual grilling he received from Dean, and to a lesser extent Hermione — and really, he couldn’t blame them for their concern, the last time Neville had come in late, he’d been lying petrified in one of the unused classrooms until their house ghost had stumbled across him — he told his friends of the brief encounter with Wanya and the nice Ravenclaw prefect and they all had a good laugh about the imposing Arthur King being berated by an outsider like that.

It was the first time that Harry called the Arthur King by his given name Wanya instead of his title, not that he or his friends noticed. Nor did any of them notice that they began to copy him. And why would they? It wasn’t like this was a life-changing or world-altering development. It wasn’t like it was a change that mattered. It wasn’t like the Arthur King was something greater, something untouchable that ruled over them even though they had been discarded. It wasn’t like Wanya was just a student, a sixteen year old kid that was far more human and far easier to renounce. It wasn’t like there was power in a name, a title, even one as insignificant as this, a pretence held up by children playing at being grown-ups.

Right?

Because that was the thing about changes. The most dangerous ones weren’t great and all-encompassing. They were small and slow and steady, so easily overlooked and forgotten that, by the time anyone noticed, it was already far too late to stop their momentum. 

Nobody, not even Harry and his friends, would recall this moment later on and maybe that was for the best. The silly beginning of great changes isn't meant to be remembered. That is, after all, the source of its devastating power. 

And so when a few minutes later Neville quite literally fell through the portrait into the common room, his legs locked together by a well placed jinx from Malfoy, the conversation was dropped and soon faded from their memory. The Arthur Knights predictably mocked Neville’s misfortune, but Harry forced himself to ignore them and dragged his friend into their dorm room. There Hermione was able to lift the jinx and Harry handed Neville a chocolate frog, and soon they were all huddled together in the middle of the room and discussed the philosopher's stone in hushed voice. Harry's unspectacular run-in with Wanya was all but forgotten.

The damage, though, was already done.

*

With a deep sign Harry closed the door to their dormitory, the only refuge they had left at this point. Ron and Neville had fallen face-first onto their respectable beds, still gasping for air. None of them were quite used to their daily sprints from the Great Hall to the safety of their own room yet — although Harry had the ominous feeling that they would have plenty of time to get used to this newest addition to their daily routine. He didn't like to admit it, but Wanya had played his part brilliantly. And it was their own fault too — for all but handing him this golden opportunity in the first place.

Looking back they had actually been lucky, though it certainly didn't feel that way right now. But if McGonagall had discovered the illegally-raised dragon they’d been smuggling through the school, losing house points would have been the least of their worries. Still, docking fifty points from each of them had given Wanya the opening Harry had been determined to avoid at all costs.

Well, too late for that now. And just when they had settled into their pariah status too. 

Wanya had managed to convince the whole house that the  _ impertinent little brats _ needed some serious discipline and an extra shot of house pride while they were at it. Never mind that, if they had been able to confide into one of the prefects, this entire situation could have been avoided — not that Harry would have confided in them, but Hermione might have. If their entire house hadn’t gone out of their way to make it clear that they couldn’t count on any of them. How exactly their newest punishment was supposed to awaken their dormant house spirit, Harry honestly wasn’t sure. He was more tempted every day to add more lost house points to his tap — it wasn’t like he wanted the stupid cup in the hands of Wanya of all people. 

At the beginning of the year, when the older students had been forbidden from helping them find their way around Hogwarts, Harry had privately thought that the punishment wasn't half as bad as it could have been. Now he knew he had been right. Being  _ hated _ instead of  _ ignored _ by your entire house was  _ so much worse _ . 

One would think his life with the Dursleys had prepared Harry for their housemates’ actions, but being used to something didn't make it hurt any less. Not that they were physically hurt or anything. Harry doubted even Wanya would go that far. They were still only eleven, a head shorter than most of the other students, and barely knew twenty spells between all of them. But that didn’t stop other unpleasant stuff. 

The name-calling, being either ignored or insulted and struggling to find a place at their table in the Great Hall. Never mind only ever getting the leftover food after the older years had already eaten. And yeah, sometimes they were pushed around a bit. And there had been that one time Seamus was tripped on a moving staircase and broke his arm. They didn’t have proof that anyone was messing with them, of course, and maybe it really had been an accident. But after weeks of being on what felt like  _ everyone _ ’s shit list — even McGonagall only ever pursed her lips in displeasure at the sight of them, which had broken Hermione’s heart and made Harry want to throw something — they were all getting justifiably paranoid. It really seemed a bit too coincidental that Hermione's ink bottle broke and all her essays were ruined at least once a week. Or that Harry's bag tended to be torn open right when he was on his way to Potions, which costed Gryffindor another twenty points every time without fail. 

It were just little things. Nothing they couldn’t learn to deflect once they began studying unbreakable charms or be avoided when they moved around in groups, keeping a hold on their bags with both hands. And it didn't happen often. But as unimportant as the incidents were on their own, they added up. 

Hermione had stopped drawing attention to herself. Where she used to answer at least half the professors’ questions in all their classes, now she remained silent on her customary place in the last row. Always focused on the books or her work and never answering a question if it wasn't directed at her. One day, Professor McGonagall held her back after class to compliment Hermione on her improved conduct in her classes that all professors had remarked upon. Seamus and Harry spent that afternoon sitting on the cold tiles of the girls’ bathroom, listening to Hermione cry herself out. They all got detention for missing Herbology, but the shaky smile she greeted them with when she finally unlocked the door was more than worth it. Hermione never suggested they try to ask a teacher for help after that.

Neville's nerves got a lot worse. He’d never been the most confident boy, but now, being met with sneers and disdain from all sides seemed to have destroyed what little self-confidence he’d managed to build up. These days, his eyes were permanently stuck to the floor and Harry honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Neville say a word outside the security of their dorm, let alone master  a charm or successfully brew a potion. The scorn his lack of results earned him did nothing to alleviate the problem. It got so bad that Dean taught them all a few signs — apparently his cousin was deaf and while Dean was far from fluent in sign language he could get by well enough to share some basics with them — so Neville didn’t have to point five times to get Ron to pass the right vegetables. 

Seamus had made a name for himself as the most talk-active first year, more than willing to reach out to their fellow students in the other houses, since the older Gryffindors hadn’t been an option right from the start. His change from happy and outgoing to a subdued boy who almost never smiled was as radical as Hermione’s, but their yearmates seemed to busy snapping at them for ‘handing Slytherin the house cup’ or mockingly thanking them to notice. In direct opposition to his sudden lack of friends outside Gryffindor, Seamus’ magic seemed to grow more explosive. Singed eyebrows and fringe were his permanent state of being these days, and his potions could possibly be labelled weapons of mass destruction. On the bright side, their classroom often blew up before Neville had the chance to mess up, leaving Seamus the focus of Snape’s ire.

Ron’s love for food was almost as legendary as the fearsome reputation of his older twin brothers. It was therefore not entirely surprising that, out of all of them, he struggled to most to get his share of food. It wasn’t just a matter of getting a place at the table, any food Ron made the mistake of enjoying happened to be mysteriously out of reach the next time it was served. It wasn’t like back at the Dursleys in that Ron never actually missed a meal or went hungry — but Harry couldn’t help but wonder whether it wasn’t worse in that Ron loved eating. It was a genuine pleasure he enjoyed — and now he was so focused on not showing that enjoyment if he didn’t want to be stuck eating corned beef the rest of his life that he didn’t get around to actually enjoy the taste.

Dean, who was as passionate about painting as Oliver Wood was about Quidditch, hadn’t used his favorite paints in weeks. His drawings were mostly abstract designs and colorless depictions of faceless people that left Harry simultaneously unsettled and fascinated when he caught sight of one. Dean stopped drawing entirely after coming back from class one day to find his sketchbook ripped to pieces. Hermione had found a spell to fix it, but Dean had told her sharply not to bother.  _ It messes with your head _ , he’d said into the darkness later that night, long after they had all gone to bed,  _ the way magic erases the damage as though it’s never been there, the way nothing ever seems to stick around and force you to confront the consequences of your actions _ . None of the other boys had known how to respond to that.

Harry himself had lost the calming sense of happiness he’d associated with Hogwarts, despite its own pitfalls and downsides, that had healed some of the damage the Dursleys had done. A soothing air of safety and warmth that made Harry feel welcome despite his house’s rejection. It was, perhaps, the closest he had come to a home in his entire life and having this too ripped away from him was not something that sat well with Harry. It didn’t help that he wasn’t the only one on the receiving end of this treatment. If anything that made it worse. It was different when other people were involved, even if Harry couldn’t explain why that was. And so the more his friends faded into the background, the more Harry’s anger grew. It was only thanks to Dean’s steady grip on his arm and Ron’s terrible sense of humor that he hadn't cursed anyone yet.  _ Yet _ being the operative word.

Perhaps the worst part was that nobody did anything. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were nearly as bad as their own house, whilst the Slytherins were too busy mocking them to use some of that fabled cunning that Harry had heard rumors about. The professors turned a blind eye or two on the situation — not a surprise to Harry, who knew better than to rely on adults, but it came somewhat as a shock to his friends, particularly Dean, Seamus and Hermione who weren’t used to being dismissed out of hand. When McGonagall one day docked points from them for defending themselves — although, at least, their attackers lost significantly more points — she lost whatever respect Harry had left for their Head of House. Not that it had been much to begin with.

That very night, the six first years began to research the position of the King of Gryffindor with a determination that verged on fanaticism. And had anyone been paying attention to the small group, it should not have come as a surprise that their main focus was on how to end a king’s reign. It wasn’t that Harry and his friends genuinely thought they had a chance against a group of vicious sixth and seventh year students — it was simply that they had run out of options. Things couldn’t go on as they were, and all of them had gone too far, had been hurt too much to give in and accept Wanya as their king now. As the muggles said: Desperate times called for desperate measures.

And so it happened that just half an hour before curfew, hidden in the depths of the library on a usually abandoned table a group of first years reached the bitter conclusion that they would have to save themselves — because nobody else was going to do it for them. They all made a choice that night. It was a decision none of them could take back.

Hours later, Harry was still wide-awake and wondering whether Wanya hadn’t miscalculated after all. Because his punishment was terrible, no doubt about that, but what did he expect this entire charade would lead to? Cutting them off from all the other students? Pushing them into a corner like that? It was a dangerous gamble. 

Because they had nothing left to lose anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter did not want to be written. Mostly because I had to rewrite a lot of it completely, but still wanted to stick somewhat to the original version... Yeah, decide for yourself what you think about the end result. In a sense, this chapter contains the two starting points of the rebellion — the obvious one and the real one, if you will. 
> 
> I tried to keep the bullying somewhat the same as we saw in canon because I think if first years got hexed or beat up, the professors would be far less likely not to notice. As it is, I'm putting a lot of their inaction down to the fact that there are so few teachers at Hogwarts (thus the lack of supervision) and the fact that a lot of the stuff is fairly subtle and thus harder to notice if you aren't paying attention. They may also underestimate the whole thing because a group and not a single student is targeted, Idk. So, this isn't me excusing bullying or downplaying it, just explaining why the professors here aren't acting even though they really, really should. But hey, where would a dark lord come from without the angst?
> 
> Soo, who saw the end of the shaky peace between the Arthur King and Harry coming? And how do you think this is going to end? Please let me know what you think in the comment section!


End file.
